


The Jerk Thief

by captnalbatr0ss



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Eventual Sex, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 06:59:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7498614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captnalbatr0ss/pseuds/captnalbatr0ss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Does the name Henry Avery ring a bell with you?” Sam turned his head, watching Rafe.</p>
<p>“The pirate?” Rafe met Sam’s eyes, raising a brow. “I’m familiar. Keep talking.”</p>
<p>“A’right. So listen to this. I’ve been doing research on this guy for years. Avery, he was one of the greatest pirates of all time. He was only a pirate for two years, but get this—in just two years, he captured at least a dozen ships, and tens of millions in loot. But there’s this one ship in particular, the big one. The Gunsway. From that ship alone, he made off with 400 million dollars,” Sam paused, letting that figure sink in. “He was never captured, never killed. One of the few pirates who ever managed to basically retire with his treasure intact. So he takes all his treasure, changes his name, and then he just disappears. Well, I know where to go to pick up his trail. I know the place, but I don’t have the means. That’s where you come in. You get me to Panama, and I guarantee I can get you Avery’s treasure.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. “Give me a number. What does it take to get us to Panama?”

Rafe Adler took a slow, steady breath, eyes intense and focused, scrutinizing his reflection in the mirror. He held his own gaze while he finished buttoning his shirt, a crisp white agonizingly expensive piece that was tailored to fit him just right. He looked away briefly as he grabbed his jacket, shrugging it on. The line of his jaw was set in stone, his eyes were cold.

It was cloudy, the sky looked ready to break at any moment, and, despite the added grievance of umbrellas and puddles, Rafe was pleased. He liked the rain, he liked water—so fluid and adaptable. The power of it. Not just in one state, but all—water, ice, liquid, solid, all a force in their own right. Rafe liked to think of himself that way; capable, powerful, ruthless. No matter the circumstance.

He exhaled deliberately, falling back on old breathing methods once intended to help him with his temper. Rafe ran hot, his intensity and ambition oftentimes to blame. It could not be helped; it was who he was, what he was down to his core. The older he got, the more it continued to grow. The more independent of his parents he became, the deeper it rooted. Fueled by a sort of bitterness, an anger that everyone knew him not because of his own accomplishments, his own successes, but those of his parents. He was known for their wealth, for their name.

It made his blood boil.

He would not be satisfied in this life, not with all the money in the world, not with the finest things, not until it was his. Really his. He wasn’t stupid, he was more than willing to use the money—his parent’s money—he had at his disposal to work toward making a name for himself. He didn’t consider that a privilege, but rather a means to an end.

Rafe Adler was born to be somebody. Not because of his last name, and not because of his parents, but in spite of those things.

He buttoned his suit jacket, straightened the lapels. The tie was the last piece, and he tucked it in just so. He stood up even straighter, giving himself a quick once over in the mirror. 

If he were being honest, it was all a bit much for him. The suit, the shoes, down to the Rolex on his left wrist. But it was the part to play, and the play to make. It was intended to impress, as money often does. The trappings, Rafe had learned, were the most subtle way to scream of wealth. 

In his experience, even those least familiar with money—those who would look at him now and never know that the suit was Alexander Amosu and cost just over one hundred thousand dollars, that the shoes were Testoni and just shy of forty grand,  that the Rolex was vintage and almost fifty grand—these people would still see him, see all the pieces, and understand that he was money.

And this was exactly the impression he needed to make today.

He glanced at his watch, frowned. He didn’t enjoy waiting; he was patient, yes, in almost every way. He knew the value of a well thought out plan and had no qualms about investing time to see it through. But that sort of patience still involved action; whether it be planning, refining, or getting his hands dirty. This sort of waiting, though, he could hardly abide it. It was only a matter of time, literally, and he hated wasting it to accommodate someone else’s schedule. 

Rafe ran a hand over his hair, smoothing it back. He locked eyes with his reflection and deliberately loosened his jaw, relaxed his expression. Like water eroding rock, he let the harsh intensity of his features wash away.

Adaptable.

“Hello. I’m Rafe. Rafe Adler.” _  
_

_Stupid. You can do better._

He added a smile to the mix, though it was forced it looked natural. He cleared his throat.

“Rafe Adler, at your service.”

_No. Terrible. Stop this. **Fix**  this._

He regarded himself carefully in the mirror, eyebrows narrowing. Eyes searching. The flaw, the mistake, what was it? Was it his lips, too tight for the smile perhaps? The jaw, too set, too tense? He tried again, throwing down a winning smile like it was a good hand at poker; a move meant to up the ante, because in the end he knew his hand would take the table. 

No, he finally decided, not the smile. The smile was perfect.

He leaned closer, scrutinizing.

It was his eyes. Too calculating. No warmth. His smile, he realized, didn’t reach his eyes. This was a problem.

His features hardened again, the facade slipped away, and he leaned back.  
He tried again. The smile, too much. Overcompensating. Failing. His whole body went rigid, the smile dropped again. He closed his eyes, opened them, closed them, opened them. Keeping his eyes locked on his reflection, he drew his hand back and brought it down across his face. Hard.

The relative silence in the room was broken by the abrupt sharp snap of palm against cheek.

“Rafe Adler, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

_No.  
_

_SLAP._

“Good afternoon, I’m Rafe.” This time a short chuckle, a warm up, but his eyes were still too cold.

_NO.  
_

_SLAP._

This time when Rafe closed his eyes, he heard a crack of thunder outside. The first sounds of rain beginning to knock against his windowpanes. He took another deep breath, imagined that the rain was inside him. That it  _was_  him. He let his thoughts go, let his focus slip. Gradually the sharp sting on his cheek subsided, died out. Rain, it occurred to him, was a metaphor. Change. New beginnings. _Hold on to that,_  he told himself,  _this is important._  How fitting that it should rain, on this day of all days. How significant. How  _delicious_.

When Rafe opened his eyes again, it was there. The approachable grin, the gleam in his eye, the mask was in place.

_Try again._

“Hello.” He extended his hand, trying the gesture on as he watched himself, looking for anything that might come across as insincere. “Rafe Adler.” The handshake would follow. “You must be Samuel.”

 

* * *

 

The museum was anything but crowded, but that suited Rafe just fine. Sam’s call for their meeting place, it had seemed odd at first, but the more Rafe thought about it, the more clever it seemed. Two men would hardly look out of place standing around in a museum, speaking in low voices, hushed whispers. Nor would they draw attention to themselves by lingering any particular place. People often spent time musing over one painting or another. It was, Rafe begrudgingly admitted to himself, actually a smart play.

Rafe had only spoken to Sam once before, on the phone, Sam reaching out through a friend of a friend of a friend. Though Rafe would hardly call any of them friends, not really. He regarded most everyone as objects, tools. Some were helpful, others of little use, and some were not even worth consideration. Relationships were few. Even when he partnered up with someone, be it for business or pleasure, he never let his walls down. Always on guard. Always at work to be one step ahead.

This time, however, Rafe was irritated to find that he was one step behind from the beginning. A small, trivial thing; still, when Rafe arrived at the museum, stepped into the exhibit he and Sam and agreed upon, he was troubled to find that Sam had beaten him there.

He regarded Samuel for a moment before approaching. Sam faced away from him, weight resting on his left hip as he examined a painting. He was taller than Rafe thought he’d be, broader in the shoulders. His hair was rather unkempt, and unlike Rafe he didn’t seem to have bothered to dress sharply. Rafe gave him a quick look from the feet up, noted the scuffed brown boots, the faded blue jeans, the worn henley.

Interesting.

Samuel Drake wasn’t quite what Rafe had expected.

Rafe cleared his throat and walked toward Samuel; his stride, he knew, projected confidence.

Sam turned at the sound of Rafe’s shoes on the tile floor, the sound echoed through the room.

Rafe was already extending a hand, already about to speak, but Sam beat him to it.

“Rafe Adler?”

Rafe forced himself to ignore how much it bothered him that he hadn’t been the one to speak first, slapping on that well-practiced friendly smile.

“I am,” he said, gripping Sam’s hand firmly. “And you must be Samuel.”

“Sam’s fine, but yeah.”

Rafe let his hand drop back to his side when Sam let go. He shifted his body to face the painting, but he could tell that Sam was sizing him up. He waited for a moment, expecting Sam to offer some details on what exactly their business together might be. When the taller man remained silent, Rafe pushed forward.

“Tell me, Samuel— Sam,” he angled his head slightly, still looking at the painting even while his posture indicated his focus was on Sam. “Why am I here?”

Sam crossed his arms over his chest, assuming a similar stance as Rafe. For all intents and purposes, the two would appear to any other museum patrons to simply be in deep conversation about the masterpiece before them.

“Does the name Henry Avery ring a bell with you?” Sam turned his head, watching Rafe.

“The pirate?” Rafe met Sam’s eyes, raising a brow. “I’m familiar. Keep talking.”

“A’right. So listen to this. I’ve been doing research on this guy for years. Avery, he was one of the greatest pirates of all time. He was only a pirate for two years, but get this—in just two years, he captured at least a dozen ships, and tens of millions in loot. But there’s this one ship in particular, the big one. The Gunsway. From that ship alone, he made off with 400 million dollars,” Sam paused, letting that figure sink in. “He was never captured, never killed. One of the few pirates who ever managed to basically retire with his treasure intact. So he takes all his treasure, changes his name, and then he just disappears.”

Rafe listened to Sam patiently, filling in the blanks on his own. Of course he was familiar with Henry Avery, Sam wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t know. 

Pirates had long interested Rafe. Men known across the ages for taking what they wanted, making a name for themselves off the backs of those less capable, weaker. Rafe admired them, Avery in particular, who proved to be not only a capable pirate, but a shrewd and clever man. In truth, Sam’s phone call, the vague explanation of what he was involved in, none of it would have piqued Rafe’s interest if not for that one word;  _pirate_.

Then Sam shifted gears, his words capturing Rafe’s full attention. 

“Well, I know where to go to pick up his trail. Panama. The jail where Avery’s first mate, Burnes, was hanged. We need to get in his cell. That’s where we’ll find the next clue.” Sam let his eyes wander back to the painting again. “So. I know the place, but I don’t have the means.”

Rafe tipped his chin up, turning away from the painting to face Sam head on.  _Here it comes._

“That’s where you come in. You get me to Panama, and I guarantee I can get you Avery’s treasure.”

Rafe narrowed his brows, eyeing Sam skeptically. “What makes you so sure?”

Sam lifted a shoulder, a sly smile on his face. “That comes later. Not exactly the kind of information I’d share with just anyone. I need to know we’re in this together. Then, and only then, do you get access to that. But you gotta know,” Sam’s expression turned serious. “If you want in on this, it’s a three way split.”

“Three?”

“Me and my brother. And you.” Sam shrugged again. “That is,  _if_  you’re in. I’ll level with you, I read up on you before this meet. Your family, your background, the whole nine. And I don’t mind sayin’, you’d bring a lot to the table. And frankly, I’m ready to partner up with someone who’s serious about this kind of thing, too. I’m done with the bullshit, I’ve worked with a lot of guys full of shit, they pitch in on the cheap, but it never works out. You get what you pay for, and all that. But I guess I’m not tellin’ you anything new.”

Rafe smiled. The first real emotion he’d allowed his face to show since arriving at the museum. For a moment the man and the mask were one and the same. 

He was surprised by Samuel. He had expected a more typical sort of treasure hunter, one motivated by riches alone. Rafe had encountered several in the past few years he’d really thrown himself into the game. But Sam was different. He knew a great deal about Henry Avery, about the vast amount of wealth his treasure represented, and yet he seemed more focused on the hunt than the spoils. 

Sam Drake understood the value not only of the treasure, but of the discovery. The significance of it. This greatly intrigued Rafe, gave him a real hope that this might be the one—the find that would make his name, that would give him autonomy from his parents.

“Samuel, you’ve got yourself a deal.” Rafe extended his hand again, shook Sam’s firmly.

“Good. That’s good.” Sam offered a cocky half grin, responding in kind. 

“Give me a number. What does it take to get us to Panama?”

Sam looked surprised. “Ah, right down to it, eh? A’right. Here.” He pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket, jotted a figure down, and handed it to Rafe. “This is a start. But that just gets us there. We still have to find a way into the prison.”

Rafe tucked the paper into his jacket without looking at it. 

“You leave that to me,” he said. “I’ll secure passage. I have to go see to a few things. After I leave here, I’ll set up an account in you name. I’ll send you the information. Once you have access,  _I_ want information. I’ll front money into the account so you know I have skin in this, too.”

Sam nodded, agreeable to those terms. 

“A’right,” he grinned, a larger than life crooked smile that was quite disarming.  He clapped Rafe amiably on the back. “Let’s make some history.”


	2. “So what, then, is this you taking me home to meet your Dad? And here I am without a corsage.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Rafe and the Drakes are in Mexico City, the night before their flight to Panama.

* * *

 

Prison, Rafe thought, was such a relative term. 

As he tied up loose ends in preparation for Panama, steeled himself for these next steps, he wondered how different it would be, really. He was already trapped, a prisoner from birth, held captive by an overbearing father who projected all of his own fierce ambition onto his only son, his heir.

Every time he had to suffer through business with his father, he left mentally drained. It always felt like a fight, in which the weapons were words, and his father was never above low blows. No matter how well prepared Rafe was, his father would find something he could’ve done better, some way he fell short. Whatever Rafe did, however hard he tried, it was never enough.

It was impossible. A battle with no end. No way to win.

In a way, Rafe looked forward to a more literal prison. Behind bars in Panama, oceans away from his father, his mother, it would be the freest he’d ever truly been.

By the time Rafe arrived at the hotel, he was already tired. It was equal parts the flight and his parents that had exhausted him.

The Drake brothers had flown in a day earlier. Sam had called him when he and Nate had landed, had let him know that they’d checked into the rooms already. Rafe had made all of those arrangements weeks prior. The two rooms—one for Rafe, one for the Drakes—and the private plane that would take them the rest of the way to Panama.

Rafe could hear them before he even made it to the room. As soon as he turned down the hall, he heard Nate’s voice, Sam’s laugh. He paused, listened more closely, hearing a third voice he didn’t recognize.

He smoothed a hand over his hair, did his best to shake off the fatigue he felt so deeply, and mentally prepared himself to be sociable.

Hands full with his briefcase and duffel, he tapped on the door with the toe of his shoe.

It was Sam who opened it.

“Hey, Rafe. You made it.” He grinned, briefly gripping Rafe’s shoulder in greeting. “Hey, listen—before we, ah, get this thing started, you got a sec?”

Rafe cocked his head, raising a brow. “Get what thing started?”

“Okay, so, ah… yeah, about that—” Sam edged his body through the door, only opening it as wide as was needed to slip out.

Rafe took a step back, lips pressed together in a thin line. “Samuel, I’ve just spent five hours on a plane to get from Manhattan to fuckin’ Mexico City. And before that, my day was spent double checking any and every possible loose end before we go inside. I’m tired. I really don’t—”

Sam took a step closer to Rafe, his eyes apologetic. “I—I know. I’m sorry. Just, before you go in there,” he paused, frowned. “Look, Nathan only told me after we’d already got here. I tried calling you again but the service here is for shit. But, ah, Sullivan’s here. Apparently he wanted to see us off, or something. He’s stubborn that way.” He was shaking his head. “Said something about wanting to, eh…” He gestured ambiguously. “He wants to meet you.”

Sam was always so good with his words, and here he was tripping over himself. Tired or not, Rafe found it amusing.

“So what, then, is this you taking me home to meet your Dad? And here I am without a corsage.”

“What? No— Look,” Sam brought his fingers to his lips, let his fingertips linger there briefly—an action, Rafe knew, that meant Sam really wanted to be smoking. “Victor’s… He’s protective of Nathan. That’s what he’s here for. He’ll say he gives a shit about us both, but it’s always been Nathan. But whatever, that’s not the point.” Sam sighed heavily, rubbing the nape of his neck.  “You—ya don’t gotta give me shit about it, y’know? I told Nathan you wouldn’t like this.” 

“Samuel.” Rafe furrowed his brow. He could smell the liquor on Sam’s breath, mingled heavily with the scent of smoke and cheap cologne. “Have you been drinking?”

“Right. So. That’s the other thing.” Sam’s face flushed slightly, he practically radiated heat.

Rafe adjusted his grip on his bags, trying to take a step forward, ready to set his things down.

Sam shifted his weight as Rafe took a step, effectively blocking him again.

They were very close now, neither one backing down. Rafe looked up at Sam with tired eyes.

“Sam, seriously. What?”

“A’right, look. I… I maybe picked up a little something for tonight. I mean, it’s nothin’ fancy, like you’re probably used to, but I remembered you like brandy so…” He trailed off, shrugging one shoulder. “I maybe got a few bottles. Come on, I mean if it’s ever been a time to celebrate, this is it!” His eyes were brighter now. He rocked back on his heels slightly, reaching behind himself to find the doorknob. He grabbed it, almost turned it, then let go again. “But I just, I figured I’d give you a heads up before you went in. That, and I wanted to say thanks.”

Rafe glanced up at Sam. “What?”

“You know, thanks. For this.” He gestured broadly, looking around at where they stood, at how far they’d come. One last step away from finally getting to Burnes’ tower. He started to shove his hands in his pockets, hesitated, then dropped his arms to his sides again. “Look, the truth is, all our research, all this planning, it’d be useless without your money.”

Rafe’s eyes narrowed, and Sam backtracked immediately. 

“That came out wrong.” He cleared his throat, running his fingers through his hair. “All I’m trying to say is, we need you on this. We wouldn’t be here if not for you. That’s all I mean. Shit. Thanks. Thank you. That’s all.” He offered a half smile and turned, pushing the door open and stepping through, holding it open for Rafe.

“Mmm,” Rafe mumbled, feeling increasingly more tired.

The first thing he noticed when he entered the room was the smell of smoke. He knew he had Sam to blame for that, but the older man in the room—Sullivan—he was also smoking. The second thing he noticed was that, for some reason, they’d all chosen to congregate in Rafe’s room—in the room with a single king, instead of two doubles.

 Rafe sighed, resigning himself to the fact that he wouldn’t be going to sleep quite as soon as he’d hoped.

Sam was taking a seat at the single small table in the room, where Nate was. Sullivan stood nearby, puffing lightly on his cigar.

Sam poured himself another glass of brandy, fell easily back into conversation with his brother. Nate barely looked up, only acknowledging Rafe with a slight nod in his direction.

Rafe set his briefcase down beside the bed, stretching his back. He felt stiff, his legs were tired.

He felt more than heard someone moving behind him, turned to see the older man approaching. Rafe forced himself to smile, to at least try to look friendly. 

Whether or not that smile reached his eyes, he couldn’t say.

“Victor Sullivan, I presume.” Rafe studied the older man, holding out his hand, which Sullivan grasped and shook firmly.

“That’s right. Heard a lot about you, Rafe,” Sully said, cigar balanced easily between his fingers.

“Likewise, I assure you.”

“Adler. Seen that name in the papers recently. Stocks rising, business booming. The name’s got a lot of weight behind it.”

“That’s what they tell me.” Rafe’s smile dissipated, collapsed into a thin line. 

“So, you’re throwing in with these two delinquents, eh?” Sully nodded toward Nate and Sam, seated at the small table, documents spread out in front of them, both talking excitedly. Sam had a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other.

“Looks that way.” Rafe shrugged his duffel off his shoulder, tossing it on the bed.

“You know, I’ve heard an awful lot about this treasure over the years. Always seemed like a pipe dream, to be honest. But then you show up in the mix and now these two think they’ve got a real shot at it. And maybe they do, maybe you kids are on to something. Henry goddamn Avery.” Sully paused, leaned in a little closer as his tone sharpened. “Here’s the thing. I don’t know you, I don’t care how much your name is worth. But Sam seems to trust you, so I guess that has to count for something. It’s no business of mine what you do, but let me tell you, you better keep an eye on those boys. God help me, I care about ‘em. So you’d better, too, if you know what’s good for ya.”

Rafe raised his eyebrows. “That sounds an awful lot like a threat, Victor.”

Sully flashed a charming grin, voice raising to a normal volume again. “Well. You ain’t wrong, kid.”

Rafe’s eyes narrowed, and he opened his mouth to respond, but Sully was already turning away—he’d said his piece.

Rafe clenched his fists, quickly ducking into the bathroom, shutting the door and leaning against it. 

He closed his eyes and taking several deep breaths. 

He counted backwards from ten. Three times.

He turned the faucet, ducked down and got a mouthful of water straight from the tap. He held it in his mouth, staring himself down in the mirror, breathing in and out through his nose until he felt his temper diminish. Then he spit the water into the sink, ran the tap again. He wet his hands, shaking off the excess water, ran his hands over his hair, smoothing it back.

He smiled.

_No, not quite._

He closed his eyes, cleared his mind. His hand twitched at his side, so he brought them both to the edge of the sink, gripping it tight.

_Relax.  
_

_Relax.  
_

_Smile. Mean it. Look like you fucking mean it._

He smiled, opened his eyes. Ran his tongue over his teeth and leaned back.

_Better._

He left the bathroom, ready to play congenial again. He did his best to ignore Sullivan as much as he could without being too obvious, joining the others.

“So, Sam. You mentioned brandy?”


	3. A break, a crack, a fracture.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam and Rafe have too much to drink, and Sam makes a move.  
> (NSFW)

* * *

 The hotel room was finally quiet. It smelled strongly of smoke, liquor. Things were winding down.

Rafe had eventually joined the rest of them, and now he leaned against the wall near Nate and Sam, nursing his drink. It wasn’t half bad, Sam’s brandy—it was, Sam said, highly recommended by the locals. And Rafe was glad to have it, it helped calm his mind.

Sam was slouched low in his chair, humming to himself, his arms crossed over his chest, cigarette still smoldering in the ashtray. Nate was talking to Sully, their voices hushed.

Rafe rubbed his eyes, pushing off the wall and moving to the sliding glass door. He eased it open, taking another sip of brandy and enjoying the breeze. The night air was balmy, even this long after sunset, but something about it was refreshing.

Rafe let his thoughts drift.

He should be sleeping. They planned to get an early start, but more importantly this would be their last night in a real bed, at least in the near future. Rafe didn’t expect it to last too long, not in the grand scheme of things, but even a few months would drag, he knew that. But the brandy had relaxed him to the point of not caring. He’d worked his way up to a heady buzz, and while it wasn’t as restful as sleeping, it still felt a hell of a lot better than the rest of his day had.

He didn’t realize how long he’d been lost in thought until he felt Sam move to stand beside him, and Rafe noticed that he and Sam were alone in the room. Nate and Sullivan were gone. 

Rafe shifted slightly, leaning against the door jamb, regarding Samuel with a quiet curiosity. 

“Hey.” Sam tucked a cigarette between his lips and ducked his head down, using one hand to flip his lighter, the other to block the wind as he lit up. A deep inhale, a steady exhale.

Rafe watched him closely—the way his cheeks hollowed on the inhale, the way his lips parted as he breathed out. He always closed his eyes during the first drag, always opened them again as he blew out the smoke.

They both stood in silence, Sam staring out at the night sky. But Rafe continued to watch Sam. Why, he couldn’t say. 

His head felt fuzzy, his thoughts had begun to run together, a warm haze. His focus kept drifting between Sam’s eyes, his lips, his hands. Rafe wet his lips, which seemed suddenly very dry. He blinked his eyes hard. 

The brandy was catching up with him, he could feel it slowing him down, addling his brain.

“Sorry about Sullivan,” Sam offered, breaking the silence. “I would’ve given you a better warning, if I’d known.”

Rafe lifted a shoulder. “Could’ve gone worse.”

“Still.”

“Mm.” Rafe finished his drink like a shot. Though it was empty, the glass seemed somehow heavier.

For a moment, it was quiet again.

Then—

“I meant what I said, y’know.” Sam turned, leaned against the opposite door jamb, dropping his cigarette on the cracked concrete patio and snuffing it out with his shoe as he slid his hands into his pockets. “Before. In the hallway.”

Rafe was struggling to see beyond the veil of brandy. His eyelids were heavy. “Mm?”

“We’re here because of you, Rafe,” Sam grinned. There wasn’t a trace of falseness, nothing disingenuous in his words. “Nathan and I, we worked hard. Hell, we tried everything. But we never made it this far.”

Rafe shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

And that was true. For Rafe, the money wasn’t an issue. Not even a drop in the bucket. He hardly thought on it at all. And if Sam was right, if whatever they found in Panama would lead them to Henry Avery’s treasure, it was truly a small price to pay.

Rafe glanced up when he heard Sam take a deep breath. Rafe saw something in his eyes, a sort of resolve. Like something had just been decided. Rafe’s eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed, searching Sam’s face for a clue. 

“No, it’s definitely somethin’,” Sam shook his head, took a step closer to Rafe.

Rafe pursed his lips, frowning as his heart rate kicked up a notch. 

He knew Sam was closing the distance between them, he could feel it. And he didn’t understand how he could feel both the dullness of his senses and a heightening of them. 

_Thank you, Pedro Domecq and your damn brandy._

He felt Sam’s fingers against the side of his neck, and then the hard heat of Sam’s body pressed against his. His heart hammered, his mind stilled.

There was nothing else. No sound, no other sensation, only Sam and his hands, his body, the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

_No._

Rafe’s fingers twitched at his side.

 _Control_.

Sam’s face was so close to Rafe’s that their noses almost touched, his breath was hot against Rafe’s lips.

Rafe tried to still his fingers against Sam’s stomach, but his touch was hesitant, unsure. 

Conflicted.

_Control._

Rafe wavered, irresolute, but he didn’t pull away. 

Sam’s lips brushed against his, feather light. A question.

Rafe answered.

He leaned up, found the corner of Sam’s mouth. He felt it turn up as Sam smiled against Rafe’s lips. Sam’s fingers danced from Rafe’s neck to his shoulder, then moved to his back. His other hand lighted on Rafe’s hip, pulled him closer.

Rafe’s body was practically vibrating. His head was spinning. And everywhere Sam’s fingers touched burned white hot.

He grazed his teeth along Sam’s bottom lip, felt the older man tremble against him. He parted his lips and then Sam was kissing him deeper, and the tentative probing of Sam’s tongue against his own drove Rafe crazy. Sam tasted of brandy, of tobacco, of something intensely carnal. 

Rafe let his fingers tangle in Sam’s unruly hair, tightening his hold, eliciting a soft growl from Sam.

Sam pulled back, breathless.

“I, ah—” he licked his lips, his eyes locked on Rafe’s. “Was that…okay?”

Rafe’s eyes were on Sam’s lips as he nodded, swallowing thickly. His fingers continued to gently curl around Sam’s hair. He still had a loose grip on his glass, and he realized it was nothing short of a miracle that he hadn’t dropped it.

Their bodies were flush together, and he could feel Sam’s heart beating fast.

“Rafe, if you don’t w—”

Rafe tugged the taller man down, kissing him again. He let out a breathy moan, muffled against Sam’s mouth. Whatever Sam had thought to say was lost.

Sam took another step forward, pulled Rafe with him as he sidestepped, moving them out of the doorway and backing Rafe up against the wall. Rafe braced himself against it and pitched his hips forward, rewarded by a short gasp from Sam as his hips bucked sharply in return. 

Sam adjusted to the bend of Rafe’s body, leaning over him as both his hands moved to Rafe’s ass, one hand grabbing a solid handful, the other moving slightly lower, finding the juncture of his thighs.

Rafe almost didn’t notice when his glass slid from his fingers.

Rafe’s eyelids fluttered as Sam’s hands teased. Sam shifted even closer, planting himself firmly between Rafe’s thighs, both arms snaking around the small of Rafe’s back in an impossibly tight embrace. 

Sam reluctantly broke their kiss again, trailing his lips across Rafe’s jaw, then dropping his forehead to Rafe’s shoulder as he slowly, steadily rocked his hips against Rafe’s.

Rafe’s breath hitched, eyes rolling back, body on fire as Sam worked their hips together. His limbs felt numb, felt heavy, and he pressed his face against Sam’s chest, cursing softly against the fabric of Sam’s shirt.

Rafe’s fingers dug into Sam’s shoulders, seeking purchase wherever they landed. Everything was slow motion for Rafe, otherworldly, a dream. He knew he wasn’t thinking clearly, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care.

Rafe felt one of Sam’s hands moving again, skimming up his side. Rafe felt his shirt begin to lift, for a wonderful moment Sam’s fingers met his bare skin. 

Sam crooked a finger, tapped Rafe’s chin, and Rafe obediently looked up. Sam was staring at him, his eyes hopeful—dark, hungry, but also brimming with unapologetic affection. Rafe closed his eyes instinctively when he felt Sam’s palm against his cheek.

_No._

_Control._

“Rafe—” It was a statement, an affirmation. An unspoken question.

_No control._

“Yes.” Rafe sighed. The voice he heard didn’t sound like his own. It was softer, it was breathless.

Sam straightened, bringing Rafe with him, one arm thrown haphazardly around Rafe’s shoulders, another around his hips.

Sam was walking him backwards, although it was an off-balance and awkward sort of walk, their legs at odds, feet shuffling clumsily. Rafe felt the bed against the back of his knees. They tumbled down, a useless tangle of limbs, lips clashing again in a heated kiss. 

Sam pushed himself up, edged his way down Rafe’s body, stopping at his hips. He straddled Rafe’s thighs, sat back, his fingers finding the hem of Rafe’s shirt, his eyes locked on Rafe’s.

“God, you have no idea how bad I want you—” Sam’s voice was barely a whisper.

The brandy had made Sam bold. He’d wanted to say as much to Rafe weeks ago, months ago. But he’d always fallen short, had never worked up to it. It had surprised him at first. Sam had never had trouble flirting before, never struggled to make his intentions known.

But Rafe was different. Rafe was unpredictable, cold, austere.

He was different from anyone Sam had ever known, and far different from anyone Sam had ever wanted.

He pushed Rafe’s shirt up slowly, as if he were unwrapping a gift. He’d had more than one dream like this, and still half expected that he would wake up.

“Christ, Rafe,” he felt a tightness in his chest as his hands met Rafe’s skin, explored the hard lines of his body. Electricity when his palms brushed across Rafe’s nipples and Rafe gasped beneath him.

Rafe shifted his body, finished what Sam started by tugging his shirt off and discarding it.

Sam followed Rafe’s lead, quickly ridding himself of his own shirt. He pushed Rafe back against the mattress, resumed his previous position at Rafe’s hips, slowly unbuttoning and unzipping the younger man’s jeans.

Sam grinned as Rafe lifted his hips, and he wasted no time in tugging Rafe’s jeans down. Sam waggled his brows playfully as he bowed down, pressed a chaste kiss just above the waistband of his boxer briefs.

“God—” Rafe groaned, gripping the bedsheets desperately.

“Hot damn.” Sam breathed the words against the outline of Rafe’s cock, laying his palm against the length.

Rafe squeezed his eyes shut, bit his lip. “Goddamnit, Sam. For fucks sake.”

Sam nipped Rafe playfully, his thumbs rubbing soft circles on Rafe’s hips. 

Rafe all but hissed, impatient, but Sam seemed to be in no rush. He finally pulled Rafe’s briefs off, they landed on the floor somewhere near his jeans. And then his mouth was on Rafe, around him. Hot, wet, hungry.

“Fuck!” Rafe barked out the obscenity as Sam’s mouth worked him over, and another string of vulgarity followed.

Sam’s hands roamed lazily across Rafe’s abs, fingertips learning each muscle, attentive to how they contracted, released, depending on what his lips and tongue did.

Rafe leaned up slightly, peering at Sam through heavy lids. The sight sent his mind reeling, Sam between his legs, Sam’s hands on his body, Sam’s lips around him.

Their eyes met.

“Sam,” he whimpered. Waves crashing, tide rising. Everything felt so good that it ached. “You can’t—  _Ah! Fuck._  Stop, or I’ll—I’m—”

Sam let Rafe slip out of his mouth, shifted forward. 

“Rafe, c’mon,” Sam’s eyes were dark with lust and full of mischief . “I’m hungry.”

“Wh—”

But then Sam was on him again, devouring him, and Rafe brought a hand to his mouth in an effort to smother his cries, hips bucking helplessly as he came.

When Rafe could finally focus again, he saw that Sam had stripped off the rest of his clothes, was still licking his lips.

Rafe reached out for Sam, hands seeking. Sam was more than happy to oblige. He nestled easily between Rafe’s parted thighs, and Rafe sighed, grateful for Sam’s weight against him.

“Samuel.” 

“Rafe…”

Rafe moved a hand to the back of Sam’s neck, pulled him down. Their eyes locked, their foreheads almost touching. Rafe slid down just enough, raised his hips to Sam’s, was rewarded by a soft whimper. He hooked a leg around Sam’s hip and urged him closer, called him in. 

Sam’s pupil’s dilated, clouded over with lust. He ducked down, pressed his lips tenderly to Rafe’s as he reached between them, guiding himself in. 

Slow. 

Careful.

Rafe inhaled sharply through clenched teeth, held his breath. His fingers moved to Sam’s shoulders, tightened. Sam was gentle. As Rafe gradually took more, Sam whimpered against the sensitive skin just below Rafe’s ear.

Their bodies began to move in unison. Their mouths brushed together, meeting in a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. Neither had the focus, the presence of mind to make it more deliberate.

As Sam’s pace quickened, Rafe struggled to keep quiet. He placed a hand on Sam’s chest, stilling him briefly.

“Sam… I don’t think I can—” Rafe frowned, searching for the words.

Sam looked immediately concerned, pressing a surprisingly sweet kiss to the corner of Rafe’s lips.

“Hey. Just say the word and we’re done.” Sam offered a small smile, but it didn’t chase away the worry in his eyes.

“No. It’s not that.” Rafe felt the heat rise in his cheeks. It was the first time Sam had ever seen the younger man blush. “We have to be quiet, your brother's in the next room, for fuck's sake, but…I don’t think I can. Not when you— Whatever you’re doing with your—” Rafe stumbled through his words. “Fuck. I need the pillow. Just...just in case.”

Rafe sat up slightly, stopping short as he felt Sam pull away, and it briefly occurred to him what an emptiness set in at Sam’s sudden absence. Sam watched Rafe’s face carefully, breathing fast. Rafe stole a quick kiss, then rolled himself over, pressing his face into his pillow.

Better.

“Sam…” Rafe turned his head, reaching back. “Sam.”

Sam’s eyes lit up as he crawled toward Rafe, trailing kisses along the valley between Rafe’s shoulder blades, using one knee to gently nudge Rafe’s thighs further apart before thrusting in again. He braced himself on his arms, keeping his full weight off Rafe as his hips rocked forward.

Sam trembled as Rafe turned his head again. Rafe didn’t make a sound, but his body quaked, stiffened. He interlaced his fingers behind his head, pressing himself more firmly against the pillow. 

Sam adjusted his angle, draping his body across Rafe's, pressing Rafe tighter against the mattress.

“Oh—” Sam managed to keep his voice low, barely, a strained sort of growl. “Rafe, god. You’re— _Ah! Shiiit._ ” 

He could hear Rafe now—muted against the pillow. Sam ached to be able to hear his cries, his curses, without concern for volume. Knowing he was the cause, knowing that he brought out such delicious sounds, it made Sam wild. The pace of his hips became erratic, harried. 

Sam wanted more. 

He needed to see Rafe’s face, needed to see his name form on Rafe’s lips. Suddenly it was all he could think of, all he wanted.

He slowed his pace, urging Rafe to roll over again.

After a bit of coaxing, he did, and then Sam’s arms were around him again, pulling Rafe up, embracing him carefully, gently.

Rafe’s face was flushed, his eyes wet with tears. His walls—walls he’d spent so many years building, maintaining, reinforcing—were buckling, crumbling.

“Rafe. Baby.”

Beneath the heady din of the brandy, something struggled to come back to Rafe’s mind—

 _Discipline_.  _Control._

—drowned out. 

Because Sam was laying him down, hooking one of Rafe’s legs over his arm, penetrating him again, and Rafe was soaring.

Sam’s lips dragging across his skin.

Sam’s soft, steady grunts.

Sam’s fingers claiming every inch of skin they touched.

Sam’s hips hammering against Rafe’s even as Rafe tried to meet him thrust for thrust.

When Sam’s hand moved between them, when he wrapped his fingers around Rafe, tugging roughly in as close a rhythm as he could manage to match, Rafe’s whole body spasmed, tightened, writhed. His eyes rolled back, Sam’s name spilling from his lips so fast, again and again, dissolving into one endless, urgent prayer.

Sam watched as long as he dared, desperate to memorize how Rafe’s brow furrowed, how his lips parted, how his body bowed up off the mattress. But Sam had to lean down, had to capture Rafe’s lips again before the younger man got too loud.

Rafe felt Sam’s body tense against his, felt the abruptness with which Sam tried to pull back, pull out before he came. Rafe’s eyes shot open, his grip on Sam’s neck tightened.

Sam blinked, unspoken question on his face as he searched Rafe’s eyes.

Rafe locked his legs around Sam’s waist. Sam wrapped his arms around Rafe possessively.

Rafe began to roll his hips. Slowly at first, a liquid motion, and then faster. Sam did his best to match Rafe’s pace, almost forgetting to breathe. Sam closed his eyes, pressing his cheek to Rafe’s chest. His body shook.

“Shit. Shit. Rafe, holy fucking shit.”

Suddenly Sam’s eyes went wide, his jaw dropped, and Rafe felt a flood of heat as Sam filled him up. Rafe stilled himself, shuddering at the sensation. His hand immediately slipped between his legs, fisting himself and giving himself a few rough tugs. That was all it took, and then he was coming again.

 _Control_.

_Out of_

_Control_.

Sam let out a choked sob, his breath ragged as he carefully rolled off of Rafe, blinking until his vision cleared.

Rafe didn’t move, wasn’t sure he could. 

Then Sam was kissing him again, whispering all manner of sweet nothings.

_Oh no._

The fog was lifting. The intoxicating lack of restraint. Fading.

_Stupid. You know better._

Rafe frowned, turning away.

“Stop.”

Sam furrowed his brow. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just don’t. Don’t do that.”

Rafe rolled onto his side, his back to Sam, shutting his eyes. He felt Sam shift behind him, press close. He felt Sam’s lips on his shoulder. He closed his eyes tighter, moved away again.

“Rafe…?”

At the sound of his name, Rafe sat up, dropped his feet to the floor, and stood. He walked—carefully—to the bathroom. The rush of blood to his head alarmed him. 

Dizzy.

_Too much. Too much brandy. Too much fucking everything._

He grimaced when he flipped on the light, looked at himself in the mirror. His hair was an absolute mess, his lips were swollen, his eyes were puffy and bloodshot.

_Shit. What did you do?_

He heard Sam from the other side of the door, his voice soft with concern.

“Rafe? Hey…are you okay? Did I—” There was a pause, and then, even softer— “Should I not’ve…ah…”

Rafe sighed heavily, rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

_This shouldn’t have happened. This can’t happen. You shouldn’t have let this happen._

“You should go, Sam. Get some sleep. We have an early morning.”

Silence from the other side of the door. Sam was speechless. Confused.

Then, finally—

“Rafe. Just… Come back for a sec, a’right? So we can just… Can we just talk?”

Rafe watched himself in the mirror, examining his features. Just like he always did, searching for what was true, separating it from the lie. He closed his eyes, let it all wash away, just like he’d done before his first meet with Samuel Drake. 

He opened his eyes and expected to see the same empty eyes, the same emotionless face, but instead he saw—

Pain.

Dismay.

_No. You can’t._

Rafe closed his eyes, swallowed thickly, took a deep breath, tried again.

But it was still there— _a break, a crack, a fracture_ —and it only deepened when Sam spoke again.

“Please. I’m sorry, Rafe, please?”

Rafe shook his head, he didn’t understand what he was seeing. 

Warmth. 

_no_

Affection.

_no no no_

_How did this happen?_

_Stop this._ Fix _this._

Rafe steadied himself. He couldn’t afford to feel anything for Samuel Drake. 

That was not part of the plan.

“Go, Sam.“ He tried to make his voice firm. “I’ll see you in the morning.” 

He heard the faint sound of Sam’s forehead hitting the door, of his hand pressing against it.

“At least tell me you wanted it, too. Rafe. Goddamnit,  _please_.” Sam squeezed his eyes shut, straining to hear anything, any reply. 

Sam still felt the brandy, cursed himself for ever buying it. He worried that he had been too drunk, that Rafe had been too drunk. That he’d forced something he’d wanted for months on someone who only wanted it in the moment, only wanted it because of the liquor. 

“Please.” Sam pressed an ear to the door, holding his breath.

“Sam…” Rafe’s voice cracked, his resolve threatened to slip.

“C’mon, Rafe. Tell me it wasn’t just me. Tell me there’s something— Tell me you felt it, too.”

_Control._

Sam waited, heart sinking with each passing moment of silence. Finally he turned away from the bathroom, grabbed his clothes, halfheartedly redressing. 

He cleaned himself up as best he could using water from the small sink in the kitchenette. He grabbed the last bottle of brandy, still nearly full, took a swig as he stood by the bed, memorizing the disarray of the sheets. Then, wordlessly, he left.

Rafe heard the hotel door open, close. He turned his back to the mirror, unable to stomach the man he saw reflected there.

_Weak._

_Pathetic._

_Inadequate._

“I wanted it, too, Sam,” he sighed, turning on the shower and stepping under the spray.

* * *

Sam let himself into his and Nate’s room as quietly as he could, feeling his way to the patio. Once outside, he sat himself down on one of the cheap plastic chairs and finished off the bottle of brandy.

Drank without feeling.

Drank to forget.

He fell asleep in the chair, dreamt of Rafe, and woke the next morning with only a fierce hangover and a lingering memory—taste, touch, heat,  _Rafe_ —the most vivid dream he’d ever experienced.

Nate was already up, already had their bags together.

“You stayed up late last night,” he said, eyeing Sam skeptically.

Sam ignored his little brother, groaning. “My head…”

“Here.” Nate tossed Sam a bottle of aspirin. “Take this. C’mon. Don’t wanna be late, we might awaken the wrath of Rafe Adler.”

Sam cringed at the name. Images flashed in his mind, they seemed painfully real, but they were clouded. Elusive. He shook off the feeling, chewing a couple of tablets of Aspirin as he stood.

He took a quick shower, changed into clean clothes, starting to feel a little more human.

A sharp knock on the door.

Rafe.

When Sam opened the door, he saw that Rafe’s eyes looked just as bloodshot as his own, but then Rafe unhooked his sunglasses from the front of his shirt, slid them on, hiding the redness, the dark circles.

“Our plane is at the airport. I’ve already called for a cab. Meet me in the lobby as soon as you get your things together.”

He turned on his heel, headed to the front desk to check them out of their rooms.

 _Shit. He seems like he’s in a bad mood._ Sam frowned.  _How drunk was I? Oh fuck, did I say something—_

Sam rubbed his eyes.

_Not a good time._

He pushed the thought from his mind, opting to deal with it later if necessary. He grabbed his duffel. It was light. It didn’t have much, they wouldn’t need it where they were going.

“Well, little brother,” Sam gave Nate a solid pat on the shoulder, forcing a smile and hoping it didn’t look as false as it felt. “You ready for this?”

“Hell yeah.” Nate grinned, his eyes were bright. 

“A’right then. Let’s go see what Captain Avery left for us in Panama.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to test the boundaries of Rafe’s control, play with how he might handle himself or try to regain it when he lets it slip. I hope it came across that way. Anyway, feedback welcome for sure.


	4. “Hey, maybe after today we can get the hell out of this dump, eh?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys lay the groundwork for their plan. Nate picks a fight, Sam’s the cigarette king, and Rafe is impatient.

 

* * *

Panama was hot.

The prison was loud, always. At first, the inmates constantly goaded Rafe and the Drakes. They certainly stood out—the only inmates both white and American.

Rafe kept out of the way, carried himself with a kind of detached aloofness, and was more or less left alone after a few weeks inside, as long as he was on his own. It was the position Rafe intended to have—his task had been accomplished in Vargas, the crooked warden at the prison, whom Rafe had bribed to get them in. What came next was up to Sam and Nate.

Sam fell into step flawlessly. Semi-fluent in Spanish, at least conversationally, he was quick to ease his way in, working to maintain his tenuous position among the inmates, joining in on gambles for cigarettes, keeping abreast of the goings-on.

Rafe wasn’t surprised. He had really only known Sam for a short time, but he was already struck by how easy Sam was, how amicable. He was tall, broad, strong—it would’ve been easy for him to bully his way through life, a tough guy with a rocky childhood. He could’ve been angry, bitter.

He wasn’t.

He was focused. Rafe respected that. Feelings for Sam aside—and as far as Rafe was concerned, it was paramount that they stay set aside—he still had his reservations about the two brothers, but for the moment he chose to direct his attention to the task at hand. 

Sam was already playing his part to the letter. It didn’t hurt that this was hardly his first time in prison. Both he and Nate had done their share of time, a few months at a time, maybe a year here and there. Rafe wasn’t sure on the specifics, but it wasn’t something that Sam had attempted to hide. It was one advantage they had over him, Rafe knew, having never been in prison before, legitimately or otherwise.

They fell into routine easily enough, biding their time. Sam kept Rafe up to date on Nate’s progress with the other inmates. For his part, Nate was doing his best to antagonize. He smarted off to the inmates when he could, trying to pick a fight. The goal was to cause enough trouble to get himself thrown into solitary. That was Vargas’s cue to take him to the old section of the prison.

That, Sam said, was where Avery’s man had been held. Burnes. It was in that cell that Sam insisted the next clue was hidden.

On this particular morning, Sam pulled Rafe aside as soon as the inmates were allowed into the yard.

“Today’s the day,” he leaned down slightly, speaking close to Rafe’s ear, his tone hushed. 

Rafe could feel Sam’s breath, hot. He smelled like tobacco and sweat, heat.  Rafe crossed his arms over his chest. He turned his head slightly, trying to look casual while Sam continued, lowering his voice.

“Nathan’s been workin’ on this guy, Gustavo, all week, and I heard some of the guys talkin’ last night, said this guy’s done with Nathan’s shit.” 

“Good,” Rafe nodded, rubbing his chin. “That’s good.”

Sam looked confident, but Rafe picked up on a hint of concern. Sam’s eyes darted to the left, glancing behind Rafe. He bowed his head and tucked a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, lighting it with practiced ease. He took a long drag, blew the smoke off to the side, away from Rafe.

“¡Oye, gringo!” One of the inmates was calling out to Samuel, waving him over impatiently.

“Ah,” Sam said, tapping ash off the tip of his cigarette. “That’d be for me. Find me this afternoon, a’right? We should know something by then.”

“Ven aquí! ¡ahora!”

“Sí sí, darme un segundo,” Sam hollered back, giving Rafe a sideways glance, grinning. “Hey, maybe after today we can get the hell out of this dump, eh?” Sam gave Rafe a quick pat on the shoulder and headed over to the small group of men still calling for him. 

“Lo que es tan importante, vato.  Puede’t vea estoy ocupado? Mierda. ¿Qué? Quieres un cigarrillo, o que? ¿Qué tienes para mí, ¿eh?” Rafe could hear Sam even still, his voice carried even from across the yard.

Rafe had literally no idea what Sam was saying, no idea what any of them were saying. Of the three of them, he was the only one who spoke zero Spanish, save for picking up what he knew meant ‘yes’, ‘no’, and ‘thanks’.

He leaned against the wall, watching as the small group circled around Sam, as if Sam were meant to be the center of attention. Rafe saw him pull a few more cigarettes out, could tell that there was perhaps a not so friendly discussion on who should get them and why, the inmates arguing amongst themselves while Sam continued to wear that cocky smile. The way he gestured with his other hand, Rafe gathered he was quieting them, reassuring them, no doubt making promises. The man was full of promises.

_Let’s just hope he can keep them,_  Rafe thought.

* * *

It happened just like Samuel said it would. 

Rafe almost didn’t notice at first, but then suddenly the shouting grew louder. The usual noise level rose. Rafe spotted Nate amongst the crowd, saw one man in particular approach him, his body language was threatening. Rafe scanned faces for Sam. Sure enough, he wasn’t too far off. Separate enough to stay out of the action, but ever watching out for his little brother.

The circle tightened around Nate and the man Rafe assumed was this Gustavo prick Sam had mentioned. The shouts intensified, and before Rafe’s view was blocked completely, he saw Nate throw a hard punch.

The fight didn’t last long.

Soon enough the guards came, the shoving started. And there was Vargas, his voice louder than all the rest. 

“¡Suéltenme!”

The crowd broke up. Two of the guards grabbed Nate, another two had Gustavo, and Rafe heard Vargas shout again.

“¡Solitaria!”

During the commotion, Rafe lost sight of Sam. Now, as he searched for Sam’s familiar face, he couldn’t find him. He frowned, already feeling anxious. Rafe didn’t like leaving things to other people. He liked taking care of business himself. But this was one item on their agenda that was better suited to the younger Drake.

He posted up against the back wall of the yard, in a small patch of shade. 

He waited.

Waited.

Eventually he spotted Sam again; he’d reappeared with a handful of the men from before. Now they were crouched down in something resembling a circle. Rafe thought he saw one of the men throw down dice. There were shouts. One cheer. Sam parted with another cigarette.

He glanced over, made eye contact with Rafe for a split second, shot him a knowing wink, then turned away, standing. He seemed to be saying something to the men, palms up in a pseudo-friendly surrender.

_All out,_  the gesture said.  _Better luck next time, boys._  And with a flick of his wrist, he plucked the unlit cigarette from between his lips and tossed it down, leaving the group to fight over it as he walked away.

The prison was loud.

Panama was hot.

And Rafe had a feeling it was going to be a very long day.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the website I used for translating (http://translation.babylon-software.com/spanish/to-english/) so pop those phrases in there and you’ll be set! 
> 
> I imagined Rafe being pretty lost on the language, so I thought the narrative kept true to that if I left out translations after each phrase. I’m not fluent in Spanish at all, so forgive me if the phrasing is off. I tried my best to hone it down to dialogue that would copy/paste into translate easy for y’all. Hopefully I pulled it off ok.

**Author's Note:**

> I was just really interested in exploring how he might be when he’s alone, prepping for this first meet, specifically tailoring himself into someone impressive and authoritative. 
> 
> He wants in, and he’s willing to really play up that rich, cold persona that commands respect. 
> 
> He has such a strong desire to make a name for himself, separate from his parents, because he has been in the shadow of the Adler name for so long now. And I imagine his parents being so harsh with him, really demanding in terms of his behavior, always wanting him to exude this upper-crust, high-class pomp. I feel like his parents were the kind of people that would slap him or something if they felt he spoke out of turn, or said something they didn’t approve of, so now he sort of mimics that kind of self-correction.
> 
> If you really want a good visual, check the opening of Mr. Robot S1E3, because Tyrell Wellick is such an intense character and I love him, so yeah, I absolutely admit to being very heavily inspired by that moment and really wanting to put Rafe in that situation and play with how that might turn out. I sort of used that as a springboard in terms of his intensity, and it was fun to play with that aspect of him.


End file.
